


Waiting In The Wings

by InCastielsWings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s05e14 My Bloody Valentine, Gen, Season 5 Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:42:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InCastielsWings/pseuds/InCastielsWings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for Season 5, Episode 14 "My Bloody Valentine"</p><p>After Sam has consumed demon blood to help save Dean and Cas, Bobby and Dean lock him in Bobby's iron cellar for detoxification.  Dean stands, drinking, in front of the door, listening to Sam's helpless cries.  Dean's not sure what he's feeling and he's desperate to figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting In The Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Un-Beta'd
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! :D

        Dean knows why it happened.  He does.

He knows it was for him and, as always, feels guilty as hell about it.  Sam shouldn't have to go through this for him.  He shouldn't be locked in an iron cellar, tied to a tiny cot.  His wrists probably torn from rope burns and his throat shredded from screaming. 

        Sam should have tired himself out hours ago, but there must be enough demon blood left in him, pumping through his body and still working its dark magic.

        Dean's leaning on the other side of the iron door, bottle of Jack in one hand and his gun in the other.  He doesn't know why he's handling his gun, just knows that the familiar weight of it is tricking his mind into believing that he has some sort of control over his life.  And for a moment, it works, but just like everything else these days, the feeling rapidly fades and leaves Dean feeling hollow.  He stares blankly at the wall in front of him as he listens to his brother's screams for help behind the door. 

        Dean keeps trying to tell himself that it's not really his brother in there, that it's just an unhealthy manifestation of the tainted blood running through Sam's veins.  But as his ears fill with Sam's choked-off whimpers, he's not so sure he's right because he feels that split second twinge of guilt again.

        But Dean's more concerned now than he was when he found out about Sam's blood, Sam's powers, when Sam was stabbed, when he found out that Sam's eyes turned demon black while he killed Lilith.  He should be terrified because he can barely feel anything, his true emotions masked by an indifference he’s never felt before.  Or maybe his emotions don't even exist anymore.  Maybe they’d died just like everything else in his life. 

        Dean's worried about Sam, of course he is, but it's alarming how differently he feels about him now.  And it's not even about Sam or because his little brother's changed in more ways than he can keep track of.  It's Dean.  It's his newfound detachment to his own life and everything that's happening in it.  Despite his best efforts to try and recapture what he once felt, he can't, and those failures hang over his head, taunting him every agonizing second he's alive.

        The worst part is that Dean knows how he should be feeling.  He knows he'd still do anything for Sam, would die for him, but in the past, there would have been tears, excruciating pain.  Probably a deal or two because when his little brother was hurting, Dean would feel the pain a thousand times worse.  Dean's heart should be breaking, he should feel the unrelenting sting in his gut and in his throat.  He should. 

        He used to know exactly what to do and how to fix things, but this time, he doesn't even know where to start.  He doesn't even know if he can anymore.

        Sam's determined pleas stop for a moment and Dean's body tenses.  He's worried, his stomach twists, but it only lasts for an intake of breath and then his mind's scrambling, trying to get that feeling back.  He's frantic, then suddenly thrown back into the desolate wasteland of his own sadistic mind.  It's still silent and he's tempted to open the door, to check.  He hesitates for a moment, contemplating which hand to empty in order to at least open the barred viewfinder. 

        But then Sam's voice starts up again and Dean takes a long swig from his bottle instead, trying to block out his brother's voice.  He could just leave, but he deserves to be punished for being such a miserable failure, so he forces himself to stand there and listen to Sam's gutteral cries.  His sick mind testing to see if there'll be any kind of reaction. 

        The bottle's almost drained and he's only been standing here for an hour.  Dean should be drunk, and Christ, he wishes he was.  But he's not, and he wonders if it's even possible for him to drown his sorrows in alcohol anymore.  He's numb to every sensation, and the harder he tries to feel, the more vacant he is after.

        He's lost almost every ounce of hope that he's faught so hard to keep all these years and Dean knows he needs help.  He's crushed under the pressure of his world collapsing.  They're stuck between Heaven and Hell, being pulled apart and pushed to their limits. 

        Everyone Dean's ever loved is dead or gone. 

        Or going.

        Sam's the only thing that makes him feel like his feet are touching the ground, that he's actually still alive.  Dean's fading, devoid of realistic and logical thought and all the lines between his barely remaining emotions are blurred, blending into each other and dissipating all together.  Deep down, he knows it's too late and no one can help him now.

        He takes the last sip from the bottle and throws his head back as the liquid slips smooth down his throat.  No reaction, no burn.  Just the painful sound of Sam's relentless appeals, echoing, reverberating off the high walls of the room he's locked in. 

        Sam's sharp, needy cries tug at his heart for a fraction of a second and his eyes flash in wonder.  But as soon as he feels something, the senation's gone and he feels even emptier than before.

        Dean hangs his head, heavy between his shoulders, and glances at the gun resting comfortably in his calloused palm.  He cocks it and raises it, curiously.  That strange, soft-focus lens that Dean has on reality, clouding his rational thinking.  He absent-mindedly imagines if he'll feel something.  Because he's just that desperate.  The muzzle of the gun is resting lightly at his temple and he thinks how easy it would be to squeeze the trigger and end it all.

        Dean tests himself by putting slight pressure on his index finger, the weight of the trigger pressing in, and he thought he'd flinch, that he'd finally feel, purge some damned feelings and realize what he was about to do.  But nothing.  Not even a blink or a flutter of his eyelids.  No warning signals from his brain.

        He puts a little more pressure on the trigger, and is going for more, when Sam suddenly shouts his name.  His little brother's voice so hoarse and filled with anguish, sounding so wretched and vulnerable.  Dependant.

        He can't leave Sam like this, damaged and alone.  Dean's confused about his life, about Sam, but it's clear that he'd still sacrifice himself for his brother in a heartbeat, endure the worst fate for Sam.  So Dean sure as hell could force himself to live through this muted torture for the one person who still needs him.

        Dean lowers the gun, finger easing off the trigger, because no matter how much he's suffering, or how much he wishes he could feel the torment he's earned, he needs to find it in him to stay alive.  To take care of his little brother, the only light in his pitch black world.


End file.
